[Kransha]

Idruil had been silent, pensive and contemplative in his unmentioned grumbling. He stared out, darkened eyes fluttering in thought, at the calm waters rippling in the wake of the barge. As a listener himself, he heard as much as he could of the fleeting conversations that went on around him. His ears stiffened as different words blew in on the wind. He sensed the same controversy that he always did, but the sight of water calmed him. It was calmer and more tranquil than the frothy, ocean’s foam around Pelargir, but still refreshing to feel a watery breeze on his face. The man of Minas Tirith allowed more memories to seep in, flooding and coursing through his mind’s corridors like more oceanic winds against his coarse-skinned face.

Soon enough, his eyes turned down as the barge stopped at that river’s opposite shore. Pulling his horse back into stride, letting it bray, frustrated and bored, he goaded the horse off the barge and onto the cold ground. His gaze turned from the dusty road to Carathir, who was not far in front of him. He didn’t like the Easterling, but that went without saying since he didn’t like most Easterlings. His prejudices were few, but he had seen too much during the last war and could never get used to looking at that face or any other’s. It brought back quelled memories which he’d pushed aside, and did not wish to live again.

“I am a prince where I come from did you know sir?” Carathir said with a light air now, Atharen smiled at the young man. “a prince of my uncle’s tribe, soon to be king of my tribe one day. “If Elessar will allow me to have what is mine.” Though the ranger looked more light-hearted as he looked upon Carathir, Idruil’s look soured as a disfiguring frown peeled across his features. Though he did not want to incite argument, he couldn’t help a jab at the Easterling. His words, though mouthed as questions, were more like aggressive attacks at the man, masked only slightly by a querying look. He tried to dilute his statement with more candor than he could show, but probably failed in the eyes and ears of Atharen and Carathir.

“A prince, indeed, how civil is the east of late.” He said, his voice first in whisper, but then loudening, “Carathir, tell me, did you see combat in the war? Though you may have made that known to others, I know not, so tell me? Is it true what I’ve often heard, that all of your kin know blood’s smell as well as they know their own? Forgive if my words are more caustic then their intent is, but it is an earnest question. During the war, the men around me would say they knew an Easterling as well as they knew their kin. I could surmise this was not so, but war can breed these falsified facts when enemies become allies. I know many who would fear to go near one such as you, and many who would cut you down where you stand.” He trailed off, his fiery tone flickering into dying embers of a murmur.

He almost instantly regretted his statement. Though he said it with a warmer air, his words were icy cold and stung. It was not that he regretted his verbal stab at Carathir, but that he regretted showing some weakness, giving in to an ancient bias which he’d thought to be conquered long ago.